


Fur-cape

by plantyourarchivewithme



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2020-04-11 13:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19110313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantyourarchivewithme/pseuds/plantyourarchivewithme
Summary: It isn't easy keeping such a big secret, but Bilbo manages. He's gotten better at controlling it since his parents died; it's easier to change now, and he doesn't always have to do it on the full moon anymore. The only thing is, he's putting the members of the Company in danger by travelling with them. And, as he becomes more and more close with Thorin Oakenshield, he risks letting go of his secret...





	1. Skinchanger

**Author's Note:**

> Movie dialogue was provided by the [fan-made movie transcript](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oxKorXTe8HNWnle-7qmPs3OEFrgPYSnor0bsfpoCT1U/edit) of "An Unexpected Journey."
> 
> I've also used an html feature that translates Khuzdul and Sindarin if you scroll your mouse over it. It's really cool and available [here](http://plantyourtreeswithme.tumblr.com/post/125435570772/hi-first-of-all-i-want-to-say-that-your-writing) if you want to use it. Translations are also available at the end of each chapter if you're on mobile.

He had told Gandalf that he didn't want to come.

What did he know? The dwarves wouldn't be safe if he came along; they wouldn't even be safe if they found out what he was. After all, the only two people who had ever known were now dead.

Bilbo had always secretly feared that somehow, he had killed his parents. First his father, then his mother... the transformations had been much harder to control back then; he had been a boy, barely of age, and only recently bitten.

No. Bungo Baggins had died peacefully in his sleep, and Belladonna, unwilling to continue without him, had done the same eight years later.

Nevertheless, Bilbo had always been afraid that he had brought about their deaths. When he was young, he never retained any memories of the times when he was transformed, but he would hear whispers from the neighbors, about how another flock of sheep was missing, or had been found lying dead in the pasture. Shivers would run down his spine, and he would go back inside Bag End, feeling sick.

As he grew, he started having nightmares. They were better now, but back then, they had been horrifying - dreams filled with blood and blurry vision, something wet on his snout, and a terrible hunger, a thirst for meat that could never be satisfied.

He had never killed a person, or even encountered one during his rampages; he would have dreamed of it, and not one of his visions included anything about a fellow hobbit.

Still, he worried,

And then, nearly twenty years later, Gandalf had come - just when he had settled down, learned all the tricks to controlling his urges and fits, finally  _controlled_ himself, for the first time in... well, as long as he could remember. He wasn't forced to endure the painful transformation that occurred every full moon; he had found fur-cape, the obviously magical herb that kept him from changing all the time.

He'd been on one of his hunts when he had discovered it, just a few nights after his forty-first birthday. A single touch of his paw, and Bilbo had shrunk back down into his normal hobbit-self, painlessly and instantly. He'd gathered a few sprigs, marked the place where he had found the crop, and planted it in his garden. It flourished under his care, and he soon found himself with a huge stock of fur-cape on hand.

He sometimes ground it up and sprinkled it on his food; it was tasteless and looked like thyme, so he could get away with using it when he had guests over for dinner. It worked wonders for him - even if he didn't eat it every day, his transformations became less exhausting, and he found that he was fully aware of himself. He could curl up peacefully somewhere in the woods and look up at the stars while he waited for the night to end. And when he did eat it, he didn't even transform at all.

Bilbo even began to  _enjoy_ what he called "change-times." No hobbit wanted to miss breakfast and second breakfast, so everyone went to bed early, leaving Bilbo to enjoy the peacefulness of nights in the Shire.

He wrote down all of his discoveries in a little bound book that he kept locked safely in a chest (which he then deposited under a loose floorboard that he had discovered as a child). Detailed illustrations and descriptions written in very small script filled the journal's many pages. He experimented, and soon learned that he could transform during the day if he wanted to, right inside Bag End. He romped in the valleys and hills of the Shire at night, testing himself to see how fast he could run, how long his strides were, how far he could leap.

Fur-cape was his savior. And he never ran out.

He was fifty, and still as fast as ever, when the wizard came to see him. He had just finished tending to a fresh harvest of fur-cape in the garden, and was sitting on the bench in front of Bag End smoking a pipe as the tall stranger walked up to him. He wore a gray robe and hat, had a long silver beard, and clutched a long, strange walking staff.

"Good morning," Bilbo said brightly, for it was a lovely day and his fur-cape was growing splendidly.

"What do you mean?" the gray-cloaked stranger asked. "Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning. Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?"

"All of them at once, I suppose." He stared confusedly up at the man, and asked, "Can I help you?"

"That remains to be seen. I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure," he replied.

"An adventure?" Bilbo said, and nearly laughed. "Now, I don't imagine anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner, hmm, mmm."

He rose and grabbed a stack of letters out of his mailbox, feigning disinterest, but the wolf in him had become excited at the first mention of the word "adventure." He had a strange feeling that he knew this man, and that he was certainly up to something, but could not recall where they had met before.

The stranger was still standing there, making Bilbo feel quite uncomfortable. He puffed on his pipe and walked towards the green front door of Bag End, wishing him a good morning for what was hopefully the last time.

"To think that I should have lived to be good-morninged by Belladonna Took's son, as if I were selling buttons at the door," the man said in mock outrage.

"Beg your pardon?" he asked.

"You've changed, and not entirely for the better, Bilbo Baggins."

_Yes, and in more ways than you know, old man,_ he thought. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Well, you know my name, although you don't remember I belong to it," said the man. "I'm Gandalf! And Gandalf means... me."

"Gandalf..." Bilbo repeated, finally remembering where he knew the stranger from, "not Gandalf, the wandering wizard, who made such excellent fireworks! Old Took used to have them on Midsummer's Eve. Ha, ha!" He paused for a moment, then continued. "Well. Hmm, I had no idea you were still in business."

"And where else should I be?" Gandalf asked.

Bilbo laughed again, then murmured, "Hm, hmm," to himself, taking another puff on his pipe.

"Well, I'm pleased to find you remember something about me, even if it's only my fireworks," Gandalf said, apparently satisfied. "Well, that's decided. It will be very good for you, and most amusing for me. I shall inform the others."

"Inform the who?" Bilbo sputtered, confused. "What? No, no, no! Wait! We do not want any adventures here, thank you. Not today, not - mm. I suggest you try over the Hill or across the Water. Good morning."

He headed back into Bag End, gesticulating wildly at Gandalf with his pipe. The door was shut, locked, and bolted, and he leaned against it, relieved.

A strange noise suddenly sounded on the other side of the door, and he put his ear close to it, wondering what it was. He peered out of the side window in an attempt to find out what was causing it, and suddenly reeled back.

As soon as he had looked out, Gandalf's blue eye had appeared there, scaring him tremendously. He had almost started growling, then remembered that Gandalf didn't know about his... condition.

He resolved to hide beneath a wall and watch Gandalf leave through a different window.

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Bilbo was standing in the dining room of Bag End, surrounded by dwarves. A parchment map was spread on the table before them, detailing the expanse of the east of Middle-earth.

They had literally emptied Bilbo's pantry. Which was no easy task, even for hobbits. One of them - Bombur, the fat one - had taken out  _three cheese wheels_ and acted as if it was nothing.

Bilbo, however, was willing to let it go, so long as they ignored his fur-cape. At one point, he had had to snatch the shaker out of one of their hands, which had been in the process of picking it up.

"No!" he had snapped, grasping it and setting it down on a different table. "That's  _not_ for you."

"Oi!" the dwarf had complained (he thought it might be Kíli, the one who called him "Mr. Boggins"). "If it's not for me, then who's it for?"

"Me," Bilbo had told him. "It's... treatment. For a condition of mine. And anyway, it tastes rather nasty, you'll make yourself sick."

"I thought it was thyme!"

"It's  _not_ , and don't try to eat it!" he said, picking the shaker up again and carrying it out of the room to lock it in his chest. He had a feeling that Gandalf was watching him as he left, but there was no way that the wizard could know...

He suddenly focused back on the conversation, withdrawing from paranoid thoughts of the dwarves somehow finding out what he was. "Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed," he heard Gandalf say. "The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle-earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But, if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done."

"That's why we need a burglar," the young one, Ori, said.

"Hmm, a good one, too," Bilbo found himself saying absentmindedly. "An expert, I'd imagine."

"And are you?" a red-headed dwarf asked.

He looked up. "Am I what?"

"He said he's an expert! Hey hey!"

The dwarves laughed, and Bilbo, flustered, said, "M-me? No, no, no, no, no. I'm not a burglar, I've never stolen a thing in my life."

Which wasn't necessarily true; he'd stolen sheep, chickens, all kinds of livestock, but not intentionally...

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins," said the white-haired dwarf. "He's hardly burglar material."

Bilbo nodded, relieved that they were finally going to let him stay.

"Aye, the wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves," said another.

Bilbo snorted, and they all looked at him. "What's wrong, Mr. Boggins?" Kíli asked, and Bilbo burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

"I-it's nothing, oh, Yavanna, if only you knew..." He wiped a tear from his eye and giggled.

Gandalf was the only one in the room who looked amused; the others all looked confused, and all began arguing with each other. Gandalf suddenly stood up, rising to his full height. A darkness spread across the room as the dwarves fell silent.

"Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is," Gandalf cried in a powerful voice. He suddenly stopped, and the darkness faded. "Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage.

"You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know, including himself. You must trust me on this."

Thorin hesitated for a second, then said, "Very well. We will do it your way."

"No, no, no," Bilbo protested, but Thorin interrupted him.

"Give him the contract."

"Please -"

"All right, we're off!" Bofur said excitedly as Balin extracted a long contract from his robes and handed it to Bilbo.

"It's just the usual summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth," he said casually, as if this was something he discussed on a daily basis.

"Funeral arrangements?" Bilbo took a few steps back to read the contract, immersed in the small script.

His ears perked up as he heard a slight rustling; Thorin was leaning towards Gandalf to speak to him. He pretended to keep reading the parchment as he fine-tuned his auditory senses (one of the perks of having a condition like his was that he had fantastic hearing) and listened to their soft-spoken conversation.

"I cannot guarantee his safety," Thorin muttered in a dark voice.

"He doesn't need protecting, he does quite well on his own," Gandalf replied, "but understood."

Thorin paused, probably confused, and said, "Nor will I be responsible for his fate."

"Agreed."

They seemed to have finished talking, and Bilbo began to read the contract out loud to cover up the awkward silence. " _Terms: cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding one fourteenth of total profit, if any._ Seems fair... Eh,  _present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof including but not limited to lacerations... evisceration... incineration_?"

"Oh, aye, he'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye," Bofur supplied.

"Huh."

"You all right, laddie?" Balin asked as Bilbo bent over in an attempt to alleviate his nausea.

"Uh, yeah... feel a bit faint," he mumbled.

"Think furnace with wings," Bofur added.

"Air, I-I-I need air." He felt a tingling feeling near the bottom of his spine, as if he were about to transform - but no, not in front of the dwarves, they couldn't know...

"Flash of light," Bofur continued, "searing pain, then poof! You're nothing but a pile of ash."

Bilbo stood, breathing heavily, and was dimly aware of all of the others staring at him.

"Hmm," he hummed, feeling a little bit better. "Nope."

And he promptly fainted.

 

* * *

 

"I'll be all right, just let me sit quietly for a moment."

"You've been sitting quietly for far too long," Gandalf said. "Tell me; when did doilies and your mother's dishes become so important to you? I remember a young hobbit who always was running off in search of elves and the woods, who'd stay out late, come home after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. A young hobbit who would have liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the barriers of the Shire."

"Yes, and because of that," Bilbo said, fingering his mug, "that young hobbit got bitten at far too young an age."

"I know, my dear boy," said Gandalf, "but you can't just stay pent up inside for the rest of your life. The world is not in your books and maps, it's out there."

"I can't just go running off into the blue," he protested. "I am a Baggins, of Bag End."

"You are also a Took," the wizard reminded him. "Did you know that your great-great-great-great-uncle, Bullroarer Took, was so large he could ride a real horse?"

"Yes," Bilbo said, looking across the room to stare at a portrait of his long-dead relative.

"Well, he could. In the Battle of Green Fields, he charged the goblin ranks. He swung his club so hard it knocked the goblin king's head clean off, and it sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole. And thus the battle was won, and the game of golf invented at the same time."

"I do believe you made that up," said Bilbo, amused.

"Well, all good stories deserve embellishment," Gandalf said. "You'll have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back."

Bilbo paused before asking, "Can you promise that I will come back?"

"No," Gandalf said, as he had expected. "And if you do, you will not be the same."

"That's what I thought." He set his mug down on the table next to his chair and rubbed his eyes. "Gandalf, will the others be safe if I go with them? I mean, I've gotten better at controlling my  _problem_ \- for lack of a better term - but what if I attack one of them? I mean, I've got my herb, the -"

"Ah, yes, your fur-cape," Gandalf said. "I saw Kíli trying to eat that earlier. Very nasty stuff for those who aren't weres."

"I-I'm aware, but what if I run out? What if it stops working for some reason? What if I hurt one of them -"

"I'm afraid you'll just have to risk it, Bilbo."

That was where he drew the line.

"I will  _not_ ," he said, getting out of his chair, "risk the lives of others for some adventure. I'm sorry, Gandalf, I can't sign this. You've got the wrong hobbit."

He walked away down the hall, feeling the eyes of the members of the Company on his back, and shut himself in his bedroom.

There was no way he was going to risk the lives of those dwarves, even if he had only just met them. And they were going on such an important quest, too, and he would probably only slow them down.

Their purpose was so honorable, so brave; it would be horrific if Bilbo accidentally lost control and... well, killed one of them. He would have no way of renewing the fur-cape stock once he ran out, and who knew how long their journey would take? He could possibly be gone for years... And he didn't know if fur-cape grew in any other parts of the world; he'd much rather stay in Bag End, where he had a plentiful crop, than take his chances and go on the quest with them.

And what if they  _found out_? How would they react? They might be afraid of him, they might banish him, or they might even... hunt him...

No matter the circumstances, they couldn't find out. Bilbo wouldn't be accepted, he knew that for certain. He hadn't ever fit in, not even as a faunt. The other hobbits had known that  _something_ was different about him, even if they didn't know what it was. And even now, as a middle-aged, esteemed hobbit man, he didn't have a large amount of friends. Sure, he had loads of visitors, but they mostly came to admire Bag End (it was renowned for its many halls and rumored treasure), and always expected to be given lunch.

It would be best if no one else besides Gandalf found out that he was a skinchanger.

_The dwarves will just have to go on their own,_ he thought as he listened to their deep-voiced song echoing through the hobbit-hole. He fell asleep as the last note of their haunting tune faded away, and the rich melody slid in and out of his dreams, which were full of dwarves, silver keys, and an eagerness for adventure that he hadn't felt in years.


	2. And So it Begins

Bag End was quiet when Bilbo woke up.

Too quiet.

He walked around the house, expecting to find the dwarves sleeping, but he found no one. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved or disappointed.

Everything was clean, almost as if the gathering hadn't occurred at all. The only proof that Bilbo had not been dreaming was the faint smoke from a hastily snuffed-out candle, almost as if it had been blown out right before he had woken up.

"Hello?" he called, and he found himself wanting an answer. The contract was sitting on a table, and he looked at it, smiling at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. Really, who was he to worry about  _dwarves_? They were thick, hard-headed creatures who could most definitely fend for themselves. It would be no problem to knock Bilbo unconscious if he somehow lost control.

Bilbo looked out the window, suddenly determined, and rushed to a nearby desk. He flung the drawer open, snatched a quill and an inkwell out of it, and hastily signed the contract. Not his neatest signature, but it would do.

The hobbit scrabbled around the house, throwing a few things into an old bag. Socks, trousers, and shirts were stuffed inside, all in Shire fashion and dyed in summer colors. He couldn't think of what else to pack; his pantry had been completely emptied yesterday, but the dwarves would most likely have rations. And it wasn't as if he couldn't get food of his own. He would just have to be careful about it, taking light steps and being sure to smudge or cover up his tracks.

Bilbo dashed to his bedroom and sprawled on the floor, reaching under the bed and wrenching up the loose floorboard. He pulled the small chest out, took the key that he always kept with him out of his pocket, and shoved it in the keyhole, barely managing to unlock it in his excitement. The journal was still inside, thankfully, and all of its pages were still in place.

He stopped for a moment, suddenly realizing the rashness of the decision he was making. If anyone found his skinchanging book, he would be found out for sure.

Gandalf's words from the night before rang in his head:  _I'm afraid you'll just have to risk it, Bilbo._

His mind was made up; he would go.

He relocked the chest, set it gently in his bag, and slung the pack over his shoulders. As he tightly shut the door to his bedroom and turned around, he thought of something that he should do before he left, and that he should probably do more often in general.

Belladonna and Bungo's bedroom was still as dusty as it had been when he had last been inside, if not more, and looked to be untouched. The shrine to his deceased parents, however, still remained on the dresser, although the candles hadn't been lit for a while.

Bilbo glanced fondly at the portraits of the couple, which were numerous. The two had loved each other very much, but that would have been obvious even without the paintings that captured their loving gazes towards each other. Bag End itself constantly reminded Bilbo of their relationship; Bungo had _built_ an entire smial himself, just for his intended.

Only one frame showed the two hobbits and their only son, who looked happier than Bilbo could ever remember being. That portrait had been painted just a few months before he had been bitten, just a few nights before the faunt's nights became long and tortured...

Bilbo cleared his throat and, feeling slightly foolish, began to speak to the portraits. "Hullo, Mum... Dad... er, well, I know i-it's been a while since I've been in here, but... well, I'm going on an adventure with a band of dwarves." He laughed in spite of himself. "Isn't it ridiculous? I've been assigned as a burglar to the Company. And they don't think that I'll be able to do it.

"Well... wish me luck, I'm about to be late."

He made a little bow, which in hobbit fashion was considered a sign of homage and great respect. Then he said, "May your feet stay silent and your toes grow hairy," an old Shire saying that was meant to bring good luck to those it was directed to.

He only stopped again in his garden to pull up the remaining sprigs of fur-cape (he already had two large bundles of it lying at the top of his bag) and stuff them into his pack. Who knew when the quest would be over with?

Bilbo sprinted through the Shire, the contract in his hand whipping behind him as he ran. He barely noticed the faces of his disapproving neighbors as he went past, but he knew that they were there. He jumped over pumpkins and fences, trying to gain more speed - the dwarves would probably be almost to Bree by now.

"Hey, Mr. Bilbo! Where are you off to?" cried one of his neighbors.

"Can't stop, I'm already late!" he called over his shoulder.

"Late for what?"

"I'm going on an adventure!" he shouted, even though he knew the man couldn't hear him. It just felt good to declare it to the world, to finally be leaving Hobbiton, to be going on an actual  _adventure_.

It was nearly breakfast time; he wouldn't be running into anyone else after he crossed the borders of the Shire. He vaulted over one last fence, had a sudden idea, and decided to act upon it.

He bristled, and felt the familiar tingling at the bottom of his spine.

It started with his ears: light brown fur sprouted from the points of his ears and spread down to his earlobes even as they pulled inwards and turned into wolf-ears. It kept going down the sides of his face, giving him comical, furry sideburns. His nose elongated, turning flat and black, and the smell of a hundred different breakfasts flooded his nostrils, almost overwhelming his olfactory senses. He twitched like a rabbit (an old quirk of his), and his nose automatically shut off all of the different scents.

His teeth grew sharp and pointed, turning into deadly fangs. His eyes retained their color - a lovely, bright blue at the moment (his eyes could never seem to decide whether they wanted to be blue, brown, or gray) - but his pupils became smaller and contracted.

There was a  _thud_ , and his hands slammed into the ground, morphing into great paws. His fingers turned into long claws sunk into his pads, and his thumbs were absorbed into the bottom as his dewclaws. He was running on all fours now, his torso rippling with fur as his clothes and pack seemingly disappeared. His hairy feet did the same as his hands, turning into large, powerful hind legs.

Last was his tail; it was much fluffier than he wanted it to be, but he was stuck with it. It was a great poofy thing with a white tip, and most times, it seemed to have a life of its own. It wagged beneath him as he bounded down the grassy hill, yipping and panting.

Bilbo couldn't remember the last time he had been in his skinchanging form during the day; he only ever transformed at night, and not very often.

But it felt  _amazing_.

 _This is what freedom feels like,_ he thought.  _Wind rushing in your face as you run for the first time in ages._

 

* * *

 

He heard the dwarves muttering and complaining a few minutes before he was upon them, which gave him time to turn back into his hobbit-self. His bag and clothes reappeared on his person, to his surprise, and the contract was still grasped in his hand. He stopped for a moment to adjust his blazer and run a hand through his ruffled hair, then continued running, not tired at all.

"Wait, wait!" he called out as he approached the procession, and the dwarves, who were riding on ponies, stopped. He went up to Balin, pretending to be exhausted from his run, and handed him the contract, saying, "I signed it."

Balin took out a pocket-glass and examined the signature. After a few moments, he smiled at Bilbo and said, "Everything seems to be in order. Welcome, Master Baggins, to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield."

The dwarves cheered, and Bilbo grinned in spite of himself. He noticed, however, that Thorin didn't look impressed. "Give him a pony," he said, and pulled on his own reigns.

"No, no, no, no, that - that won't be necessary, thank you, but I-I'm sure I can keep up on foot," Bilbo protested. "I-I-I've done my fair share of walking holidays, you know. I even got as far as Frogmorton once -  _no, really, I can manage!_ "

Two of the dwarves had just tried to grab Bilbo and put him on a pony, and he had reacted quite violently, nearly growling at them. "Really, I'll be fine just walking. In fact, I could probably run ahead by myself - Gandalf, tell them!"

Gandalf, who was riding on a horse of his own, smiled. "Yes, why don't you, Bilbo?" he said. "Thorin, shall we let our burglar go ahead until we set up camp?"

Thorin glanced back at Bilbo dismissively. "I doubt he'll be able to beat our pace, but if he wants to, he may," he said.

Bilbo smiled and set out at a brisk pace, quickly passing Thorin's pony, which was in the lead. As soon as he was in the cover of the trees, he changed again, staying ahead and listening to the Company's conversations from a ways away.

"Come on, Nori, pay up," he heard Oín say. "Go on."

There was a clinking sound - coins being exchanged - and a few satisfied snickers. The rest of the dwarves began tossing sacks of money to each other, telling others to pay up, and laughing.

 _What's that about?_ he thought, certain that Gandalf would be able to hear him (he was a wizard, after all).

"They took wagers on whether or not you'd turn up. Most of them bet that you wouldn't," Gandalf said under his breath. Bilbo's hearing was so astute that he was able to hear the wizard's whispers from a long distance away.

_What did you think?_

"Hmm," Gandalf mumbled, and there was another clink as he caught a bundle of coins that had just been tossed to him. "My dear fellow, I never doubted you for a second."

Bilbo sneezed as he passed through a patch of dandelions - he had always suffered of hay fever in the springtime - and suddenly stopped, turning back into his hobbit-self. He searched through his pack frantically, having realized that he had forgotten something rather important.

"Oh, no," he said aloud, distressed, and turned back into the wolf, ambling morosely down a hill.

"What on earth is the matter?" he heard Gandalf mutter.

_I forgot my handkerchief._

He was sure that Gandalf was smiling bemusedly as he replied, "You'll have to manage without pocket-handkerchiefs and a good many other things, Bilbo Baggins, before we reach our journey's end. You were born to the rolling hills and little rivers of the Shire, but home is now behind you - the world is ahead."

Bilbo didn't know if he should be excited or confused about their adventures, so he settled on a little of both.

 

* * *

 

All it had taken was a whisper from Gandalf, and Bilbo had soon joined the dwarves at their campsite, having transformed in the trees nearby. He had taken a bit of water from his waterskin and rubbed it on his forehead to make himself look sweaty; then he had taken off his blazer and tied it around his waist, to make it look as if it had been too hot to run in.

He had come running from out of the trees, dropping his pack on the ground and sitting on a log, feigning exhaustion.

"How far did you go?" Thorin asked, coming up and sitting on the tree stump opposite him.

"Not very," Bilbo responded, which was a lie - he had strayed so far off from the Company at one point that his mental connection with Gandalf had cut off. He had doubled back immediately, only to have to respond to the frantic muttering of Gandalf, who had been quite concerned.

"How does one as small as yourself walk faster than a pony?"

He blushed, slightly offended. "Hobbits are much faster and more durable than most people know," he said, inventing wildly. "That's how I caught up with you this morning."

Thorin didn't believe him, he could tell, but his excuse would have to do until he came up with a better one.

Nighttime fell, and most of the dwarves slept. Bilbo found that he couldn't sleep; he was still too excited from the events of the day. Gandalf and a few other members of the Company were awake, as well, but they stayed silent.

Bilbo absentmindedly walked around the camp, yearning to be in his wolf-form again. It had felt so good to be running by himself earlier, free of responsibility and worry, and knowing that if anyone came across him, Gandalf would be able to take care of it.

A distant scream suddenly rent through the night, and Bilbo started, tempted to turn back into his wolf-form. He went back over to Fíli and Kíli, trying to focus on anything other than the tingling he was feeling, in his mouth this time.

"What was that?" he asked them, feeling slightly dizzy.

"Orcs," Kíli said, just as another yell sounded. Thorin, who had sleeping nearby, suddenly woke and stood, his shoulders hunched.

"Orcs?" Bilbo said, nearly clamping his hands over his mouth to keep from growling. He bit his tongue, a horrible rage almost overtaking him.

"Throat-cutters," Fíli told him. "There'll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them."

"They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet; no screams, just lots of blood," Kíli added.

The brothers looked at each other as Bilbo pretended to be frightened, then snickered.

"You think that's funny? You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?" Thorin asked, approaching them. His eyes met Bilbo's as he came up to them, and Bilbo realized that they were the same color as his own - a stunning, piercing blue.

"We didn't mean anything by it," Kíli said.

"No, he didn't," he said. "You know nothing of the world." He walked away to the edge of the cliff, passing Balin as he went.

"Don't mind him, laddie," Balin said. "Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs. After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thrór tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy had got there first.

"Moria had been taken by legends of orcs lead by the most vile of all their race: Azog, the Defiler. The giant Gundabad orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began by beheading the king. Thráin, Thorin's father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing, taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us.

"That is when I saw him - a young dwarf prince facing down the pale orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armor rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield. Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken."

Bilbo listened with interest, imagining a younger Thorin standing over the body of the pale orc, holding a tree branch and a sword. An aching hunger rumbled in Bilbo's stomach, and he covered his mouth with his hands, almost salivating.

"Our forces rallied and drove the orcs back," Balin continued. "Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast, no song that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived.

"And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one I could call king."

Thorin turned away from the cliff and looked back at the Company, who were all awake and standing. They stared at him in awe as he passed between them and strode towards the fire, his eyes again focused on Bilbo.

"But the pale orc?" Bilbo said, prompted to ask by the strange look in Thorin's eyes. "What happened to him?"

"He slunk back into the hole from whence he came," said Thorin. "That filth died of his wounds long ago."

The Company went back to sleep again, after a few more conversations about the battle and orcs, but Bilbo found that he couldn't rest. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Thorin staring at him, his eyes staring right through Bilbo.

That would not be the first time Bilbo was haunted by Thorin's gaze.


	3. Revelation

Bilbo missed his pony.

It had taken him nearly twenty minutes to convince his steed, whom he had christened Myrtle, to let him get on the day before. She could smell the wolf in him, he knew that, even though he was in hobbit-form. After many kind words, more than a few apples, and a little help from Gandalf, Bilbo finally stepped up into the saddle (not without a struggle, of course - he had never ridden a pony before, and his size certainly didn't help).

As soon as he had adjusted the bit and reins, it began to rein.

They were soaked to the bone, even the member of the Company who had brought cloaks and hoods. For once, Bilbo had wished that he could wear boots like the dwarves did; the soles of his feet were covered with mud, and the curly hair on his toes was extremely dirty. But hobbit feet were too sensitive for shoes - they didn't pad around silently without some disadvantages, of course - so he would have to endure it.

"Here, Mr. Gandalf," Dori called, "can't you do something about this deluge?"

"It is raining, master dwarf," Gandalf responded, "and it will continue to rain until the rain is done. If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another wizard."

"Are there any?" Bilbo said, riding up next to Gandalf.

"What?"

"Other wizards?"

"There are five of us," Gandalf told him. "The greatest of our order is Saruman, the White. Then there are the two blue wizards - you know, I've quite forgotten their names."

"And who is the fifth?" Bilbo asked.

"Well, that would be Radagast, the Brown."

"Is he a great wizard or is he... more like you?"

Gandalf looked at him, offended. "I think he's a very great wizard, in his own way," he said. "He's a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others. He keeps a watchful eye over the vast forest lands to the east, and a good thing, too, for always evil will look to find a foothold in this world."

Bilbo pondered that for a moment, trying to imagine what sort of evil remained in Middle-earth. He racked his brain for anything that he could have read about in one of his books, or heard from a gossiping neighbor, but found nothing.

They rode on for hours, and eventually, the rain let up. Thorin deemed that they should camp earlier than they had the previous day, so they stopped at an abandoned farmhouse that was in shambles. Bilbo was aching to be in his wolf-form, just so that he could unabashedly shake all of the water off of him.

That was the last time they rode the ponies before the battle with the trolls, which Bilbo had barely survived. How could Fíli and Kíli send him alone after the trolls? Not that he couldn't fend for himself if he had to, but he had tried to avoid changing, in case the dwarves had seen him.

Of course, that hadn't worked. He'd been forced to turn into his wolf-form, distracting the trolls until dawn with his howling. The dwarves had been quite pleased to find three new troll statues, but had been less pleased when he wouldn't explain to them how he had done it.

"I just... kept them busy," he had said, feeling extremely foolish. Thorin had stared suspiciously at him, but made no argument.

And then they had raided the troll cave - he had stayed behind for that to consume a dose of fur-cape - and Gandalf had come up to him with an elvish sword in his hand. "Here, this is about your size," he had said, pushing it into Bilbo's arms.

"I don't need it, Gandalf" - and here he had lowered his voice to a whisper - "you know I've got other ways of defending myself. And anyway, it's not as if I know how to use one."

"Just in case," the wizard said, winking.

Then the warg howls sounded, and the ponies had bolted.

Bilbo knew it was his fault: if it hadn't been for his howling the night before, the orcs never would have found them. But he couldn't tell the dwarves that, of course, leaving Gandalf to suspect that it was Thorin's fault. Thorin hadn't told anyone of their quest, of course, but Gandalf had been quick to question him - anything to divert the attention from Bilbo.

Then they ran.

Gandalf's friend Radagast had offered to distract the orcs with his rabbit-drawn sled, but he'd quickly forgotten what his motive was - to lead the hunting party away from the dwarves. He rode around in circles for a while, and suddenly, one of the wargs detached itself from the group, thundering towards them. They hid behind a large outcrop of rock, and the orc steered the warg on top of it, dangerously close to the Company.

Every part of Bilbo was telling him to transform, to jump at the warg and its orc rider, to attack them - but he knew that he couldn't. Not there, not in front of the dwarves, not in front of the  _enemy_...

Kíli drew an arrow from his quiver and set it on the string of his bow, preparing to step away from the boulder and shoot the warg. Bilbo knew at that moment that the young dwarf could die. He had a brother, a mother that he had mentioned to Bilbo a few days ago, a father...

He reacted without thinking: growling, pushing Kíli out of the way, and changing into his wolf-form in a split second.

The dwarves cried out and stepped back as a gigantic brown wolf appeared in the midst of them, snarling at the orc and its steed. Bilbo bounded up onto the rock with a single stride, and his maw closed around the warg's neck. He dragged it to the ground, shaking it ferociously until its pulse stopped. The orc fell from the saddle, and Thorin finished it off, hacking at it twice.

Bilbo's eyes latched onto Thorin's as he dropped the dead warg on the ground. He took a step back and shrunk back down into his hobbit-form, his hands, mouth, and waistcoat covered with blood. The entire Company was staring at him, even Gandalf (who had never seen him in action before).

He stared down at the warg, mortified at what he had done. The bitter taste of warg was in his mouth, and he felt the urge to throw up, looking away from the mangled body that lay at his feet.

"That... that is why you laughed," Thorin said in a hushed voice, and Bilbo knew that he was referring to the night in Bag End when he had been in tears about the dwarves suggesting that he couldn't defend himself.

He nodded, finding that he could not speak, and tried to discern what it was in Thorin's expression that unnerved him so much. Fear? Anger? Hatred? Perhaps a combination of the three...

"We should move on," Gandalf said, "before the rest of the - Bilbo, where are you going? Come back!"

 

* * *

 

 _It's a nightmare,_ he thought as he sprinted over the plains.  _Just a bad dream, you've had these before..._

Maybe he wasn't taking enough fur-cape with his meals. Yes, that would explain why his horrible nightmares were returning; he would have to start eating it every day now, in order to prevent such terrible visions.

His vision was stuck in black-and-white, as it always was when he was dreaming, but there was a sudden rushing sound and a flash of light, and he was seeing in color again. A hand clamped down on his shoulder, pulling him to a stop, and he whipped around, thinking of orcs and blood and a deep hunger that had awakened in him -

It was Thorin. The color of his eyes - a startling blue - distracted him from the insatiable rage he was feeling, and he breathed again, focusing on their intensity and color.

"Stop," Bilbo gasped, "I-I'll only hurt you, go away -"

"Bilbo" - how he had longed to hear someone say his name so lovingly, in the way that Belladonna had so many years ago - "I know you won't. Gandalf says you have a way of controlling it, come back, please..."

"I will  _kill you_!" he said, a hysterical laugh bursting out of his mouth. He probably looked mad, his face and hands sticky with blood... "You c-can't help me, no one can, you have to leave,  _right now_!"

"No." A hand took his, large and warm and comforting. "You're staying with us."

"I-I don't want to hurt you," Bilbo choked, and he realized that tears were dripping down his face. He had never meant for his secret to come out, not like this, not so soon...

"You won't," Thorin reassured him, wrapping his arms around him.

Bilbo's memories of everything else were blurred and faded, but he distinctly remembered the way Thorin's embrace felt.

It reminded him of other days, when he was still a faunt and not yet bitten - in other words, when he had been  _happy_.


	4. Rough-yet-smooth

Thorin didn't stray from Bilbo's side for maybe an hour - grasping his shoulders protectively as the wargs cornered them in the clearing, keeping a loose grip on his arm as they made their way through the secret passage, and brushing against them occasionally in the elvish courtyard. After that, his hands were gently pried off of Bilbo by an elf maid, and Bilbo had been taken to a small room where he could clean himself off.

_How embarrassing,_ he thought as the elvish woman closed the door,  _being seen covered in gore by elves._ He surveyed his quarters, craning his neck to examine every detail. It was a light-filled room with a balcony in the corner, a separate door leading to the washroom, and a bed that was much too big for a hobbit. He was tempted to lie on it and take a well-deserved rest, but stopped himself, remembering that he was still extremely dirty.

Bilbo padded to the lavatory and drew himself a bath from the warm bucket of water that someone had left over the fire. His dirty clothes were hard to get off (they were wet and stuck to his chest), but he eventually stripped and stepped into the bathtub. The tension in his shoulders vanished as he sat down and leaned his head back; he contemplated taking a nap, as he had often done as a fauntling in the Shire, but thought better of it.

A flowery-smelling soap was sitting on the wide rim of the tub, and he scrubbed himself off, rinsing off the caked blood that had dried to his skin. The water turned a faint shade of pink as he cleansed himself, and he suddenly dropped the bar of soap, feeling sick. The hobbit stood up quickly, water rushing down his body as he got out of the bath. Bilbo clumsily wiped himself off with a towel and held it to his face for a moment, struggling to breathe. He wrapped the towel around his waist after a few seconds and left the bathroom, not exactly knowing what to do with the rosy bathwater.

He sat on the bed, using another towel to dry his curly hair, and noticed that someone (probably the elf maid from earlier) had left him a fresh set of clothes on the dresser. The tunic was embroidered beautifully, obviously made by elves, and was probably meant for a child. He didn't care; he pulled the pants on and realized that they hung down to his feet. Slightly annoyed, he reached down and pulled the cuffs up to his ankles in Shire-fashion.

Bilbo had been about to put the tunic on when there was a knock. He draped the shirt over his arm and opened the door, only to find Thorin standing there.

"Master Burglar," he said, his cheeks red as he noticed Bilbo's bare chest. "I-I can leave, if you want -"

"No, stay," Bilbo said firmly. "Please."

That just made the dwarf blush even harder, but he was beyond the point of caring. Bilbo turned and went back over to the bed, sitting down on the sheets. He pulled the tunic over his head and let it hang loosely from his shoulders, not bothering to tie it. After a moment's hesitation, Thorin sat down next to him, taking care not to sit too close to Bilbo.

"Are you coming for dinner?" he asked carefully. "The elves have prepared a great feast for us -"

"No small talk, I think we're past that," Bilbo interrupted. "What do you want to know?"

"About... about what?" Thorin said feebly.

Bilbo glared at him reproachfully.

The dwarf flashed a small smile in return and said, "How long have you been a... wolf?"

"Werewolf," Bilbo corrected, "but I prefer skinchanger. And... since I was a hobbitling. I was bitten at a very young age."

"So it doesn't run in your family?"

Bilbo grinned. "No, it doesn't normally; the most common way to get it is to be bitten on the full moon. Not that it's a very common predicament..." He trailed off, staring out through the balcony opening. Rivendell was more beautiful than anything he could ever have imagined.

"Full? But tonight, the moon is only waning," Thorin said. "How did you change?"

"Fur-cape."

"Excuse me?" Thorin said. "I left my cloak in my quarters, if that is what you're asking, but I can easily retrieve it -"

"No," Bilbo laughed, "I mean  _this_." He pulled a bundle of it out of his pack, which was sitting at the foot of the bed, and showed it to Thorin. The dwarf took it gently, examining it with interest.

"We grew this in the Lonely Mountain, many years ago," he said. "It was the only plant that survived inside our halls, as it's extremely durable and thrives in any climate."

Bilbo stared at him with wonder, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders; he wouldn't have to worry about losing control during the final stage of the quest, which would take place in Erebor. So long as he rationed his supply, he would be fine. And he had plenty of it, more than enough to last him for the rest of the journey.

"My people call it  _abrut_ ," Thorin said, "meaning change. I believe they knew of its properties, but I do not."

"Oh, let's see... well, it makes my transformations much easier, they're normally pretty painful," Bilbo explained. "And it actually enhances my abilities, like my smelling and my hearing. That's how I was able to communicate with Gandalf when I was... on my own. And I can change at will, like you saw today. I've actually got a little book filled with all the things it helps me with, so if you want, I can show it to you later."

"I have only ever heard of bear skinchangers before, not... not wolves."

"Skinchangers are rare, and wolf skinchangers are even rarer," Bilbo said. "As far as I know, there have only been three werewolves in Middle-earth: myself, the one that bit me, and the one that bit him."

"Do you know who it was?"

Bilbo looked sideways at him. "Yes," he said softly. "It was an accident, but back then, he wasn't even aware of it himself... nobody knew about them, so in turn, nobody had a cure."

"But who was it?" Thorin asked, not unkindly.

"My grandfather, the Old Took," Bilbo said. "It was at my tenth birthday party, and the whole family came, just as they did every year. And we had it at night, and, of course, it was a full moon..."

Thorin suddenly rested his hand on top of Bilbo's, more gentle than Bilbo had ever thought he could be. "I'm sorry," he said simply, and anything else would have made Bilbo withdraw. But not this; no, it was so simple, so painstakingly  _honest_.

He smiled. "Thank you. And... no, I won't be going to the feast. I'm exhausted, and this is honestly the largest bed I've ever seen."

"Then I shall not be attending dinner, either," Thorin said, staring right at Bilbo. He blushed - oh, how he  _hated_ it when he blushed, the tips of his ears would darken and his cheeks would turn a bright shade of pink - and struggled to maintain eye contact with the dwarf.

They didn't talk to each other, but Thorin sometimes hummed to himself in Khuzdul, and Bilbo practiced his Sindarin for when he would meet the elves. The two of them listened to each other as they spoke, the foreign words flowing from their mouths and overlapping, creating a strange mix of a rough-yet-smooth dialect.

Bilbo did not know when they lay back against the ornate pillows and closed their eyes, but he woke with a distinct memory of falling asleep to Thorin's dwarvish words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul Translations (in order of appearance):**  
>  _abrut_ \- change


End file.
